


Dancing with the Ice Queen

by loveinadoorway



Category: British Actor RPF, Strictly Come Dancing RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4877878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom's on Strictly Come Dancing and his partner is cold, aloof and exacting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing with the Ice Queen

The ice queen was frowning. What else was new?

Tom stood there in his ridiculous outfit and under normal circumstances, he’d try to connect to the person he was supposed to go out there and shine with, but she was icy and aloof, as usual. What the hell was he doing here? There were fucking FRILLS on his shirt. Frills.

Rhiannon was tense, tenser than she should be. A minute from now, they would go out there and tear every single member of the jury a new one. She was happy, though. Her partner was the best non-professional she’d ever had. He was lacking in the discipline department and he hadn’t realised his full potential just yet, but they would win this, she was sure.

It had been hard for her. So hard to try and protect herself against this man. She had sworn to herself she wouldn’t go there again, wouldn’t make herself vulnerable again for some man to hurt her. Never again. But he was… special. So enticing. Educated to the max, polite, sweet and charming. It was so very hard not to fall for him utterly.

The music started. She took his hand and they went out there with those exaggerated moves he hated so much. He had this down to a tee, though. Twirling, swirling, swaying and shaking those hips, just as she’d taught him.

They went home with the highest score on Strictly Come Dancing. Ever.

Tom had fallen hard for her at first glance. He had never quite so fervently prayed to the Fates than he did to pair him up with the beautiful Irish dancer. He had been charming, erudite, had thrown himself into the cha-cha with complete abandon. To no avail. The gorgeous, pale-skinned, black-haired, green-eyed woman had remained as cold as the autumn nights.

He sighed and continued stretching. She’d be here any minute now, for the next round of merciless training. Rumba – how was he ever going to survive this? The most sensual of the Latin dances. Despite everything, he felt himself hardening. She was just so… different. So… everything he had ever needed, wanted, desired. So unavailable. Period.

He propped his right leg on the barre, trying to stretch a bit further than he’d normally go, putting in a bit of an extra effort. If only she’d know.

Rhiannon quietly walked into the training room. He was there already, as she’d known he would. Stretching on the barre, as she thought he would be. He was a perfectionist. He damn near managed to look like a ballet dancer. He was very flexible, muscular, fit and above all dedicated. She had a hard time staying professional around him.

Why did he have to be charming and sweet, on top of everything else?

It happened halfway into their rumba number. Tom turned and while he did it, he knew it was wrong. Not misstep and regroup kind of wrong, but rather you’re going to tear and break stuff kind of wrong.

Rhiannon saw the bad move and acted immediately. No VIP in her charge would get injured, so she went into the move, instead of out of it, turned Tom around, dislocating her shoulder in the process. Better her shoulder than his cruciate ligament.

He could feel it pop out. There was nothing he could do. Rhiannon had somehow managed to throw herself into his catastrophic move and while he was propelled right across her prone body, he could clearly, sickeningly, viciously, feel her shoulder give.

It all felt surreal. He called an ambulance, rode with her to the hospital, waited for hours with her, threatening, cajoling and offering money to speed things up, to no avail. Finally, they put her under and fixed her shoulder. Now he was propping her upright in the cab, trying to help her home.

Her apartment was clean, neat and decorated in warm, vibrant colours. He half walked, half carried her to her bedroom and tucked her in. She was completely out of it, mumbling some half-intelligible protest when he tried to put a nightshirt on her. He took her bra off regardless and tried to make her comfortable in a well-worn flannel nightie.

He then grabbed a blanket and nestled up on her sofa.

It was his fault. His stupidity. His wrong move. Now she was injured and he had to somehow make it all okay. No clue how, he just knew he had to try.  
He hit her sofa pillows in helpless rage. It took him a long time to go to sleep.

He swam back into consciousness slowly and sluggishly. She was standing in front of him, white as a sheet, glaring at him.

“Where’s my cell?”

“Not sure. The studio?” he answered, his voice rough with sleep, or lack thereof.

“I need to call Martha. She could take over your training, take you to the finals.”

“No. No way,” he growled, sitting up, trying to shake the sleepiness from his head.

“You can win this,” Rhiannon said softly. “You’re the best amateur I ever trained.”

Tom was dumbstruck.

“I thought you… despise me. Think I’m no good at all,” he said, looking at her in disbelief.

“If I thought that, I’d have excused myself from this job a while ago. I have an exit door in my contract, should I get paired off with a talentless oaf,” Rhiannon replied.

Tom took a deep breath: “Either I win this with you, or not at all.”

“In that case, we need to change the plan, Tom,” Rhiannon said softly. “I can’t do the rumba like that.”

“I don’t care if we have to dance all night long, I want to just … do this. With you.”

A week later, they smoothly glided from the shades into the light. Thunderous applause greeted them. Tom swirled Rhiannon around in one practised move. The soft, sweet notes of a waltz meandered through the studio and he did what she had taught him.

Even one arm short of a full deck, they won that round hands down.

He walked her back to her dressing room, waving aside any helping hands that were offering assistance. In the relative privacy of the tiny room, he wrapped his arms around her in complete silence. No matter how many syllables, words would not help him now.

His lips claimed hers, his tongue sliding home, his soul finally at rest in her embrace. His hands were sure in their touch. They found a way, a way that would not put any pressure on her injured shoulder. And when she stroked him with her uninjured hand, he moaned with pleasure.

Who would have thought all it took was a dance?

And all that followed was nothing but a horizontal dance on a very, very small stage, truth be told.

Tom held her for a long time afterwards. And it was perfect.


End file.
